Merrill Gillaspy              editor
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morning lines #130

8/23/2017

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Stroke the downy hairs of my throat until the bird rises up and I can push it out of my mouth. The wet matted thing dries by the will of the sun. I watch it hop on its remaining foot, like longing, like hope, like desire held by its wings.
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8/23/2023 11:37:48 am

Great read, thank you

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